


stories that the mouth can’t tell

by frostbitten_cheeks



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: 08/07-13/07/15 canon mark, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-19 00:31:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4726061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostbitten_cheeks/pseuds/frostbitten_cheeks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five conversations about Germany while Dan is away and the distance becomes something tangible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	stories that the mouth can’t tell

**Author's Note:**

> this is probably only ever going to be relevant for the eighth to the thirteenth of july, twenty fifteen. i’d like to think that’s okay. 
> 
> (link to this fic [on tumblr](http://literaryphan.tumblr.com/post/120781499691/be-sure-to-ring-the-doorbell))

Midway through the Sims video two hours before Dan has to leave, Phil says, “Dil’s clothes aren’t exactly camping material, are they?” and Dan taps on the desk rhythmically then absentmindedly mentions, “Oh, man, my clothes are still unpacked,” as if he’s saying _I don’t know, clown suits are totally bear-proof._

Phil blinks once at the screen and turns to look at him, says, “Seriously?”, doesn’t even bother angling himself towards the camera. This part will be edited out, he knows, cut and thrown away with the moments of silence and curses and smiles that widened too far. Onscreen, Dil’s having an animated conversation with Eliza Pancakes. Neither of them notices.

Dan shrugs one shoulder and says, “Yeah, it’s fine,” titles his head like he doesn’t know he has two hours to be on a taxi to the airport, like he’s forgotten in a day he’ll be away. Phil thins his mouth and stares for a moment that’s too long and it occurs to him that perhaps he’s forgotten what it’s like when Dan’s away. 

Later, after Dan saves the game and laughs about pulling off a soap-opera inspired cliffhanger, Phil counts the days they’ve been apart in each year since they’ve met and runs out of numbers the closest he comes to the present. He almost tells Dan over makeshift dinner, _remember when we lived two hundred miles away_ , but doesn’t, because the following question is _did you know we’ve been apart less than ten days this past year_ and his train of thoughts leads to a dead-end after that, drives across a broken bridge above a col. Instead, he silences them both and drops his hands to his lap, turns away.

 

 

-

 

 

“You’ll already be sleeping when I go,” Dan reminds him while he shoves his laptop and his charger and seven types of wire connections into his travel bag, looks up from where he’s hunched over the office desk. Phil shifts the computer mouse to check the gaming video’s still uploading, shuffles one foot on the carpet and says, “Yeah, I know.” Dan nods once and they hold eye contact and when Phil smiles, it’s a conversation concluded without words.

Dan drops his bag on the sofa when he finishes packing, narrates from downstairs his internal struggle with choosing to wear a V-neck to Germany. Phil spins on the swivel chair and lists off items Dan could potentially forget to take, a spacesuit and a dog whistle and a shovel, because _you never know what you might find_.

Dan comes back upstairs and rolls his eyes, says, _I doubt I’m gonna find much space in Germany, Phil_. He grabs his bag and the two of them move to the lounge and when it’s nearing Phil’s bedtime, Dan texts the executive producer and Phil drops three tins of lip balm into Dan’s bag while simultaneously brushing his teeth.

“You may not find space but you’re definitely not gonna find humidity,” he reasons, and Dan’s smile is crooked and tittering and fond, and he kisses the mint off of Phil’s mouth, says, “Here’s hoping.”

 

 

-

 

 

Dan calls him eight hours after he leaves for Germany. He says, “Berlin’s great, you would have loved the architecture,” and it’s not quite _I wish you were here_ , but in some ways it is. Phil stands in their kitchen in London and his toast is burning and to him it’s all the same. 

Dan tells him about Berlin and about the ride there and about the camera crew that’s shadowing him around. He tells him about his day and Phil hums along and it’s almost like every breakfast, Phil drinks his coffee sleepily and Dan babbles until his mind catches up with his tongue and the sun outside the kitchen window makes Phil’s plant seem greener than usual. It’s almost the same, except Dan’s an hour ahead of him and Phil’s drinking coffee in the empty kitchen and the _almost_ echoes louder in the empty spaces. 

Dan says, “It’s kinda weird not talking to you for so long, you know,” and Phil doesn’t tell him he’s wrong. He doesn’t say that Dan sent him a picture of the Tom Hardy lookalike taxi driver five minutes after he left or of the sandwich he ate for breakfast while Phil was still asleep or of the first filming location Dan visited that day. He doesn’t say that usually, they can go hours sitting across quiet concrete walls and not say a word. He doesn’t say that twelve hours is not long.

He says, “Oh my god, Dan, that’s so cheesy, if you buy yourself a pizza and put it on your face it couldn’t be cheesier,” because it gets Dan laughing. He says this because they don’t allow themselves the tenderhearted liberty to miss each other when it’s only been twelve hours, because they don’t allow themselves to really miss each other at all. Dan says _it’s kinda weird_ and what he’s actually saying is _I like it better when you’re here_ , and even at face value, that’s more than enough.

“Call me when you’re done filming,” Phil says, and Dan says, “No probs, tell the cacti I said hello,” and it’s _I miss you_ and _have a nice day_ and _come back soon_ all in one. They hang up the phone and the parroted conversation leaves warmth on Phil’s insides, the coffee tasting sweeter, somehow, the fading bitterness sticking to the back of the rim.

 

 

-

 

 

Phil happens to experience the stalking incident live via text, a rollercoaster that begins with _i think the two girls behind me are taking sneaky pics_ and ends with Dan screaming in anguish into the void, repeating again and again, _i was wrong i was wrong jesus fucking christ i was so wrong phil i’m gonna die_.

Back home, seven hundred miles away, Phil laughs into his pillow so hard his sight goes blurry and his laptop slides off his chest to the mattress. The first thing he texts back is _, congratz, your funeral’s the only party you’ll ever attend whose colour palette truly matches your aesthetic_ , and the second is, _you need to tweet this, dan. you have to. the gods of twitter command you_.

They speak on the phone while Dan does, and Phil can hear him typing into twitter, deleting and retyping eight times. “It’s not War and Peace, Dan,” he tells him, but they’re empty words. Dan’s twitting process is something he’s closely familiar with, and he’s long since lost hope this ritual will change.

“I can’t believe that happened,” Dan mumbles between considering and reconsidering the _mfw_ part, again and again. “This is your entire fault, okay? If it were the two of us we could have just laughed about it and I never would have gone over to them. It’s all ‘cause you’re not here.”

“Clearly, being away from me for a day is already destroying your life,” Phil says. There’s no heat in it but behind lazy sentences and soft tones stand truths, and they’re stretched so far neither of them can see where they begin and where they end. “Best not to repeat that, then.”

Dan says, “Now who’s the cheesy one?”, and he’s joking but he’s not. In between stretched truths there are the lines they’ve drawn for themselves, and the lines are diagonal and serpentine and sharp, but they work. Living inside walls is only suffocating when these walls are not your handiwork, and the thing no one ever tells you about walls is that tearing them down isn’t always the way.

Phil says, “Tweet it already, Daniel,” instead of a real answer, and maybe it’s because he doesn’t want one but mostly it’s because it’s not needed. Dan says, “Alright, alright, Jesus, I’m sharing my humiliation with the internet, don’t fret,” and they go through the replies together, combing through the messages that come faster than their timelines can load. Dan says, “This is all part of my personal magic, though,” and Phil thumbs the twitter app closed and stretches his limbs across the bed as he says, “Well, keep telling yourself that.”

 

 

-

 

 

At midnight the bedroom is pitch black and Phil curls up with two books and a forgotten glass of water on the nightstand, his mind ticking a countdown he’s only absently aware of, the minutes since Dan texted him. In the hallway, heavy footsteps drag across carpeted floors and Phil smiles into the sheets as Dan opens the door and drops his bags on the floor, crawls into bed in tousled hair and thick boots.

“These sheets are clean, c’mon, take a shower first,” he tells the dark, and Dan presses tired exhales to the curve of Phil’s shoulder and spreads jaded limbs across Phil's back, lying spread-eagle in his clothes and his exhaustion and the beat of his heart pressed against Phil’s ribs.

Dan tells him, “Fuck off, no way,” kicks off his boots and nudges socked toes against Phil’s calves. He dismisses Phil’s grumbling with a pinch and a tug to the pillow beneath Phil’s head, steals it to rest his own. In the dark of the room and the final tick of Phil’s countdown, he shoves the books to the floor and lets Dan lay there, doesn’t even try to move.

“How was Germany?” he asks, and finds that he actually wants to know. Dan huffs laughter onto his skin and says, “Far more space than humidity, surprisingly enough,” and it isn’t the answer to Phil’s question but it’s midnight and Phil will take it, will settle for interrogating the details in the morning over his coffee and Dan’s rambling, and the plant that will seem greener than before.

“I hope you had fun,” he says, and Dan says, “Yeah, I did.” Outside, a car speeds down the road. Inside, Phil settles into the mattress and Dan’s lungs catch on all the words Phil’s held back and Dan’s weight on him feels like a reminder. In the silence, it’s not quite _I missed you_ – but in some ways, it is.


End file.
